


Cheekbones

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drunk Enjolras, Jealousy, M/M, Pining Enjolras, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Enjolras, kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:50:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hey hi, how are you?” he gives the girl a creepy huge smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, taking her hand and shaking it frantically. “Yes it’s spectacular to meet you too but a family emergency has occurred, I just don’t know for whose family yet, and I need to take Grantaire from you for a while, okay? For like, ten minutes. Or sixty six years. It’s no big deal, he’ll be back soon. Or maybe he won’t.” The girl opens her mouth, probably to ask what the hell is going on but Enjolras holds up a hand and tuts. “See that guy over there? The one with the bowtie, next to the overdressed awkward freckled lanky dude? Now you see, the bowtie guy is an excellent dancer. And kisser. And I have heard from several of my friends that he’s excellent at blowjobs,” he scrunches up his face in concentration, as the girl stares at them absurdly. “Well maybe that piece of information isn’t exactly helpful to you, I know how you feel it never felt helpful to me either, we’ve been friends since kindergarten you see. Anyway, go and say hi, okay?” and with that, he grabs Grantaire’s wrist and drags him at the door of the bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cheekbones

**Author's Note:**

> I know I haven't updated my kidfic in what seems like ages but I was sick for the 24601st time this year so I asked for prompts for the first time in the weekend and this sort of happened. Original tumblr link [here](http://lepoeteimaginaire.tumblr.com/post/78473762852/possessive-enjolras-maybe#notes).  
> I hope I can get round with updating my other story as soon as I get my shit together. Constructive criticism and opinions always more than welcome :)

The thing is, he should have expected this.

Grantaire has never kept quiet about his numerous affairs. In fact he’s been loud, more than a little loud and obnoxious about them to the point that his friends would laugh and tease him, unable to believe all of his stories. Enjolras didn’t know why they didn’t, in fact he’d never really bothered to question them, as he now realized that their behavior eased his mind a bit. Only Jehan and Eponine seemed to keep oddly quiet, and it had never occurred to Enjolras that they knew something more about it, not until he realizes that they’re the only ones not gaping at the girl Grantaire is dancing with tonight. Because the rest of his friends are. Gaping.

Not gaping _at the fact_ that Grantaire is dancing because of course Grantaire is dancing. As far as Enjolras is concerned he can get witty and funny and he is so clever, when he is not drunk –which admittedly he is not much. Yet. And he has the bluest eyes in the world. It’s like, a really hyper _vibrant_ blue that sort of makes Enjolras dizzy in a horribly frustrating way, like a LED light only softer. And weirder. Like they’re not transparent, he can’t see through them. And it’s frustrating him so much. And he paints. And fences. And dances, and boxes. All of which do show with that tight black t-shirt he’s wearing. Yes, even the painting part because his t-shirt is _paint-stained._ Who the fuck wears a paint-stained t-shirt at a bar? That’s so fucking pretentious!

No, they’re not gaping at the fact that Grantaire is dancing. Neither are they gaping at the _girl_ Grantaire is dancing with. She sure is considered conventionally pretty, with her stupid blond curls and her stupid blue eyes and her stupid white skin -seriously who has blond curls and blue eyes and white skin… oh. Oh. Shit.

Yeah.

That makes it even worse for Enjolras who’s feeling really strange right now, like he’s a bit sick only not exactly, it’s a particularly unpleasant tightness in his stomach, and his cheeks are prickling with warmth, his throat feels as if he’s trying to swallow cotton balls. Because everyone’s actually gaping at _the way_ Grantaire is dancing. Which is pretty ridiculous and sinfully unnecessary and should probably be banned. Why the hell is he swinging his hips like that in those jeans and is his shirt so tight and _where had those tattoo sleeves been all this time there’s literally so much color_ and his hands are on her hips and she looks fucking ecstatic _of course she does_ and she runs her hands down her chest and this is just disturbing.

“Enjo are you okay?”

He turns at Courfeyrac without really looking and he really doesn’t like the tone of his voice. “Yes,” he says loudly enough to be heard through the loud music which always makes him awkward, as do the dancing people around him because he really can’t sway to the beat to save his life. “Who’s that girl dancing with R?” he asks quite absent mindedly.

“I don’t know,” Courfeyrac shrugs his shoulders, “she’s hot though.”

“Yes,” states Enjolras, matter-of-factly though he doesn’t really know what he’s replying at, “he’s dancing though.”

Courfeyrac lets a chuckle, ruffling Enjolras’ hair before turning away. “Not my division!”

His eyes furiously search for them in the crowd and he soon finds them again, only now they’re resting against the bar, visibly sweaty and short of breath and laughing heartily at something that must be _so fucking funny indeed._ And he throws his head back and laughs and Enjolras can see the sheen of sweat glimmering on the curve of his neck and it’s as if he can hear his laughter in his ears, loud and obnoxious and disturbing and suddenly Enjolras is angry, he doesn’t know how or why but he’s furious because how dare he. He needs Combeferre, he knows he does, so he just elbows and excuses his way through the crowd in the middle of which he didn’t want to be in first place until he takes a glimpse of his best friend, chatting vividly with Bahorel, Joly and Bossuet. Demandingly enough he clutches on his sleeve and pulls it until he drags his attention and Combeferre returns to stare at him with genuine surprise. “Yes, Enjolras?” he asks.

“I don’t like her intentions,” he says seriously, his brow furrowed.

“Whose intentions?” Combeferre asks, looking fairly puzzled but soon he follows Enjolras’ gaze and understands. “Oh,” he says softly, “I’m afraid I’m failing to understand.”

“Her intentions about Grantaire. He’s a member of our group. A quite important one.” That might not be entirely true. “And I don’t like her intentions about him.”

Combeferre reaches for Enjolras’ arms and squeezes it comfortingly. His voice is patient. “What can her intentions possibly be? And how would you know them?”

“I know them, it’s the cheekbones,” Enjolras insists and he’s more than thankful that Combeferre doesn’t really question his life choices and decisions right now. “They’re douche-y cheekbones. She wants to use him.”

“Hate to break it to you but you have pretty similar, prominent cheekbones,” Combeferre raises an eyebrow, patting his friend’s shoulder. “Now, no one can use Grantaire, he’s an adult more than capable to take care of himself and do whatever he wants!” the slight sharpness in his friend’s voice somehow riles Enjolras up even more.

“He’s drunk! Drunk means no consent and consent is _important_ Combeferre!”

“In all honesty my friend you seem drunker than Grantaire right now.”

At that very point Enjolras realizes his friends are there and staring, and before he’s able to protest because nobody seems to understand the problem in Grantaire’s actions, Joly hands him a glass of something he can’t really identify. “Drink this,” he says solemnly, “it’s good for the heart.”

And for some reason, he doesn’t know why, he ends up drinking it. And soon Jehan is cooing at him and giving him more glasses which taste horrible and make his nose scrunch up and Bahorel helps him when he’s in need for more because Bahorel is a good friend and Jehan is a good friend and they’re all really good friends and they need to know that alcohol means no consent and his friends know the importance of consent.

A few minutes… hours – _somethings_ later he might be more than a little drunk and he’s still standing there only Grantaire is not just laughing, no. Grantaire is leaning forward and she’s whispering something in his ear and his eyes are shut in a peaceful state of ecstasy. Enjolras can’t help but imagine the way how warm his breath is going to feel on her skin and suddenly his own cheeks are prickling with warmth because he realizes with how many people Grantaire has been intimate with in the past and Enjolras just doesn’t know, Enjolras just never saw, he imagines other hands running over the muscles of his chest, feeling the rhythmical beat of his heart, he imagines other teeth digging slowly in that hollow between his collarbones, he imagines nails tracing between his shoulder blades, lips brushing against those chapped ones, a tongue tasting all the different colors from his tattoos and suddenly he can’t take it anymore, he can’t bear to imagine Grantaire crying a name that isn’t his, he needs to stop this because his insides are boiling and he’s cringing with every thought and his hands are shaking, so he just crosses the room and finds himself at the bar, tapping Grantaire’s shoulder. The man turns around, looking rather surprised to see him, but it’s the girl on whom Enjolras’ attention is turned and he really can’t dislike her because nothing is her fault but at the moment he really does hate her, as he hates every other faceless person who ever dared to lay a hand upon that man standing just next to him, smelling of smoke and whiskey and paint. “Hey hi, how are you?” he gives her a creepy huge smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, taking her hand and shaking it frantically. “Yes it’s spectacular to meet you too but a family emergency has occurred, I just don’t know for whose family yet, and I need to take Grantaire from you for a while, okay? For like, ten minutes. Or sixty six years. It’s no big deal, he’ll be back soon. Or maybe he won’t.” The girl opens her mouth, probably to ask what the hell is going on but Enjolras holds up a hand and tuts. “See that guy over there? The one with the bowtie, next to the overdressed awkward freckled lanky dude? Now you see, the bowtie guy is an excellent dancer. And kisser. And I have heard from several of my friends that he’s excellent at blowjobs,” he scrunches up his face in concentration, as the girl stares at them absurdly. “Well maybe that piece of information isn’t exactly helpful to you, I know how you feel it never felt helpful to me either, we’ve been friends since kindergarten you see. Anyway, go and say hi, okay?” and with that, he grabs Grantaire’s wrist and drags him at the door of the bar.

“What the actual  _fuck_ was that?” the dark haired man asks, obviously shivering when they get out of the bar as he’s still in nothing but his –entirely too tight- t-shirt.

“I didn’t like the way she was looking at you,” Enjolras slurs, “as if you belonged to her.”

“Excuse you, I don’t belong to anyone,” Grantaire protests, positively offended. “What was that little show…”

“I mean, you could belong to other people! That would be okay!”

“Are you deliberately being an asshole or is this your natural state?” snaps Grantaire. “Let me repeat myself, I never gave the right to anybody to believe they own me.”

“I’m sorry,” murmurs Enjolras, taking off his jacket and throwing it awkwardly over Grantaire’s shoulder. “Sorry, I… Joly gave me some drink. Said it was good for the heart. It isn’t, you see. Because my heart’s doing a funny little thing right now,” he lets a small hiccup, taking Grantaire’s hand and pressing it on his chest. “See?”

“Oh God Enjolras,” sighs Grantaire, looking quite flustered. “You’re really fucking messed up. “If I get Joly…”

“No really, it’s okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you can belong… I mean, not in _that_ way, no one is no one’s possession, we are ourselves’ people… or something. Oh God make the street stop spinning…”

Grantaire grabs Enjolras’ arms and fixes his eyes in his own and God they’re _so blue…_

“You could be mine… if you wanted to. And I could be yours, I have no problem with that. And _you_ could still be yours. But I would very much want you to be mine. And I got angry, you know,” the blonde pouts. “I could not tolerate this.”

“Enjolras what the fuck-?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Wait – _what_?”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says formally, straightening his posture and fixing his jacket around Grantaire’s shoulders, as if he’s suddenly sobered up. “Do I have the consent to kiss you, and claim those lips of your own mine while your personality, ideas and choices still remain your own and your own only?”

Grantaire is just standing there gaping. And a little more. Until Enjolras furrows his brow and presses his lips to a thin line, looking ever so serious about this while half-slurring “because consent is important, and right now kissing you seems like kinda really important too so I figured out important things go together.”

And just then, Grantaire presses his lips on those full pouty red ones, fingers thrown in those blond locks.

Grantaire breaks the kiss just to mutter “I’m yours, you ridiculous human being”, and Enjolras spends the rest of the night smiling against his lips.

 


End file.
